"But I'm not your mother," he protested.
"But you said you care about me!" I replied, my face flush. I started to cry a soft cry, with a trembling lip and tears streaming.
"Mr. Mettler, you are supposed to help me!" I sobbed, my arms at my side and hands turned to face him, beseeching. "What you're doing isn't helping one little bit! Not one tiny bit!"
I snorted and sniffled, on the brink of tears.
"All right, all right!" he said, his face wrinkled with worry. "You just need to understand that this is all new to me."
He took me by the wrist and swiveled so the chair faced away from the desk. With surprising skill, Mr. Mettler positioned me over his lap.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
Six strokes in, I knew that the 'pretend' punishments were over!
"Wha-aaa-ahh!" I bawled, his hard hand spanks breaking the logjam of emotions.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK
Mr. Mettler started spanking harder and faster.
"Ohhh-hhh-hhh! Owww-wwww-wwww! Wha-aaa-ahhh!"
I kicked and squirmed. When I tried to put my hand back there for protection, he grabbed my wrist.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
I was hyperventilating, gasping for breath, snorting snot and coughing. Mr. Mettler paused and I thought my ordeal was over. But to my utter shock, Mr. Mettler let go of my wrist long enough to pull up my skirt. Grasping my wrist again, along with part of my upturned skirt, he proceeded to spank me on the panties...
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Wha-aaa-ahhh! Owww-wwww-wwww! Wha-aaa-ahhh! Ohhh-hhh-hhh! Wha-aaa-ahhh!"
Somehow I began to disconnect. My mind detached from the body being spanked.
Okay, that's enough... I remember thinking. And simultaneously, Mr. Mettler stopped spanking me. But I felt a tug on my panties and I realized the power of my own suggestion.
"...if my mom were here, she would take me over her lap, pull down my panties, and give me a spanking till I couldn't cry another drop..."
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Well, that's precisely what Mr. Mettler was giving me...
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
And when I couldn't cry another drop, Mr. Mettler stopped. I sobbed in the spanking position for the longest time. I don't remember Mr. Mettler pulling my panties back up, but he must have. Then I sat on his lap, sniffling.
"Mr. M-Mettler," I managed to speak, "I d-don't th-think that sp-spanking followed the r-rules."
"I know, Grace. I went overboard. I'll probably lose my job over this."
"No you won't!" I giggled. "Maybe you didn't follow the rules, but that's what I needed. Truly I did. I'll never tell, as long as you promise me one thing."
"Oh boy!" he sighed. "Here comes the blackmail."
"It's not blackmail," I retorted. "It's just that I don't want to let my 'crush' on Johnny Castor wreck my grade in science. So I want you to help me."
"Help you? How?"
"Every time Johnny Castor gets a better test score than me, I want a spanking. From you. Promise?"
"What choice do I have?" he smiled, kissing my forehead. "I promise."
---oOo---
The next day, I asked Johnny Castor to help me study for science. I told him I was scared of flunking. That gave me an excuse to go over to his house on school nights to study science up in his room. I had to wear perfume and do a lot of leaning over before Johnny got up the nerve to kiss me.
I started doing better on our science tests. Not right away, because I didn't want to seem too obvious. Naturally, when I didn't do as well as Johnny, I would stay after study hall on test days to have a 'little word' with Mr. Mettler. Many times I went over to Johnny Castor's house late, my bottom hot and sore, hoping his mother would leave us alone so we could make out on Johnny's bed.
Sometimes I got the top score. Sometimes Johnny got the top score and I had to stay after school.
Any way you look at it, I always won.
What's the Big Deal?
"Grace," said Marge Brackenridge, "I had a disturbing phone call from Sheila's mother. Is there something you want to tell me?"
It was late Sunday afternoon. Grace had returned home about three hours ago.
Grace shrugged. "No."
Sheila Pelka lives with her mom and stepdad. But every other weekend, she stays with her bio-dad. On Friday night, Sheila's mom had stopped by to pick up Grace. Sheila and Grace both spent Sheila's weekend visitation with Mr. Pelka.
"Grace," said her mother, putting her hands on her hips, "did Mr. Pelka spank you?"
"Oh, that. Yeah, he did. But Sheila and I agreed to it."
"Why?"
"We wanted to stay up late last night to watch a DVD with Mr. Pelka and his new girlfriend."
"She was there too?"
"Yeah," replied Grace. "Anyways, Mr. Pelka wanted us to go to bed so he could spend time alone with his girlfriend. He told us we could stay up late, but only if we agreed to a spanking. So we said yes. I think he was surprised."
"Grace! Spankings aren't a commodity. You don't trade spankings like legal tender."
Grace shrugged, unsure what 'legal tender' meant. "Well, Mr. Pelka's girlfriend said yes to a spanking, too."
"He spanked his girlfriend, too?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. He spanked Sheila and me in the guest room. Later, we could hear his girlfriend getting it in the master bedroom. She got it good!"
"I understand from Sheila's mom that he pulled your panties down."
"Well, yeah. You gotta do that for pants-downers. Sheila always gets it bare. What's the big deal?"
"Grace, you're 14 and a strange man bared your bottom and spanked it."
"He's not strange. He's Sheila's dad. And most girls get spanked bare, Mom. It's no big deal."
---oOo---
"Mom, can I have $20 for my iTunes account?" Grace asked the next evening. "You can put it on your credit card."
"Ask your dad," her mother replied from the sink. "I don't know how to do all that new-fangled online stuff."
"Okay, I'll ask Stan," Grace replied.
Grace never called her stepfather "dad."
"How are you going to pay us back?" her mother asked as Grace turned to leave.
Grace paused. "Maybe out of my allowance?"
"Your allowance is already deep in the red. Maybe you should ask your dad for a $20 spanking."
"You're kidding, right?"
Even though Stan had been Grace's stepfather for almost a year, he had never disciplined her.
"What's the big deal?" her mother asked sarcastically. "If a spanking on the bare is legal tender for Sheila Pelka, why not you too?"
Grace shrugged and left, without saying a word.
As she rinsed a few dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Marge Brackenridge smiled.
"I bet that's the last I hear of that," she muttered to herself.
Simultaneously, from the other end of the house, Marge heard the unmistakable sound of the commencement of a bare-bottom spanking, followed immediately by her daughter's wails.
---oOo---
By the time Marge reached Grace's bedroom and opened the door, her daughter was pulling herself up off Stan's lap. Grace's panties remained bunched at her ankles while the girl rubbed her butt.
"What's the meaning of this?" Marge demanded.
Since Grace was rubbing her buns and sobbing, Stan replied on his stepdaughter's behalf. "Grace said you said she could swap a spanking for $20. Did Grace lie to me?"
"Well, no. I did say something like that. But I was being sarcastic. Do you want to dole out spankings every time Grace asks for money?"
Her new husband shrugged. "I don't see the harm. I don't think you spank Grace as much as she needs."
"I spanked her just three weeks ago!" Marge protested.
"Well," shrugged her husband, "it's just a spanking. No big deal."
"And what possessed you to spank her on the bare bottom?" asked Marge.
"Hey, it wasn't my idea!" Stan protested. "Grace just pulled them down herself."
Marge was speechless.
"Now can you put some money in my iTunes account?" sniffled Grace, still rubbing her buns. "Please, Daddy?"
The Strategic Ambiguity of Safe-Words
"Mom pisses me off!" whines 13-year-old Staci Spiel, my stepdaughter. "She won't even consider it with an open mind!"
The teen continues to sputter. "And what's with Mom getting all irate and driving off in a huff?"
Staci's anger then shifts to worry. "Do you suppose she's alright?"
"If I know Sabina," I sigh, "she's sitting in a diner a half mile from here, drinking coffee and figuring some way to crawl back here without losing face. Sabina will try to blame her outburst on you or me."
"Yeah, I can hear her now. 'Look what you made me do!' Why is Mom so crazy, Howard?"
"Because she just is," I reply. "She had a rough time, growing up: abandonment; blurry boundaries; inappropriate touching. A real mess, psychologically speaking."
"But still, Howie, there's something basically wrong with Sabina's whole personality."
I chuckle. "That's true, Staci. But some people might say the same about you."
"I'm not crazy! Not most of the time, anyways. Okay, okay. I have my meltdowns, just like Mom. But I don't have them as often. And when I do, I go off to be by myself."
I chuckle. "No need to get defensive."
"Besides," Staci insists, "I'm not asking for a major intervention. I'm just being sensible. Very sensible. Grounding me is a burden on everyone. The AA route is quick. Efficient."
"The AA way means one thing to you and something very different to your mother," I reply. "Besides, when did you take your last dance with AA, Staci?"
"Oh," she says vaguely. "When I was eight, I guess. Or maybe even seven."
"Do you remember all the feelings?"
"You mean, do I remember the hurt?"
"Not just the physical discomfort," I continue. "I'm more concerned about the emotions. The psychology."
"Yeah, I sorta remember. Why? Howie, are you trying to tell me something?"
"I'm just suggesting that maybe you don't want to go to war with your mother, only to get something you don't really want after all."
"But I do want it! I want an AA option in my life. Like any normal girl, I want something solid. Concrete. Hard."
"But don't you want to know what it really feels like these days? At your age? As a teen?"
"You mean like right now?"
I nod.
She gulps.
"Your mother's gone," I note. "She won't be back for hours. This is the perfect window of opportunity."
"But shouldn't I go out and do something first?"
"Go do something later," I suggest. "Let's strike while the iron's hot."
---oOo---
"Do we really need to use this?" asks Staci. "Actually? For real?"
"All the while we were talking about AA," I reply, examining the implement, "what did you think I meant?"
"I wasn't thinking that we'd use the AA proper. Not literally."
She rubs her hand over the blade of the ping-pong paddle, boldly inscribed with its loathsome name: Attitude Adjuster.
"Well, this shouldn't be too bad," says Staci, feeling the protective foam skin.
"But we must be realistic," I caution her. "Can't change your mind halfway through."
"No, I won't. Don't worry. I'm on board. I'm going all the way to the end."
"Oh, I'm not worried about that. I know you're going all the way to the end. I'll take you there. But I am concerned about your psychological reaction."
"Howie, don't talk tough! Everybody knows you're a big softie."
---oOo---
Of course, Staci's actual experience turns out quite differently than what she imagines. No Mr. Softie! She's forgotten how endless it all seems, and how vulnerable she feels. Afterwards, she says it's the closest thing to rape. Most disconcerting, says Staci, is the sensation of losing all control over her own body. Well, that's exactly what I've been trying to explain to Staci. An Attitude Adjustment is electroshock to the personality, applied to the other end. A good, hard, long spanking changes things in a teen.
"So, Staci, when your mom gets back, you want me to push for the AA option?"
Rubbing her butt, Staci considers her choices.
"Yes, Howie," she says firmly at last. "I want spankings back as an option. Please?"
"Okay," I tell my stepdaughter, "I'll make it happen."
Still, Staci has instant buyer's remorse.
"I just wish I had some kind of control!" she whimpers after we decide, rubbing her tight, round teen buns. "Some kind of protection, when I'm pushed out past my limit."
"Like a safe-word? So how would something like that perform like a real change agent?"
"You're right," she sighs. "But Mom has a safe-word. Doesn't she?"
I make no secret of the measures I must take in our household to moderate the histrionics of Staci's mother. I can't keep Sabina's "behavior modifications" a secret, even if I wanted to. Behavioral modification through the AA route is a high-volume therapeutic intervention.
"Yes," I reply, "but your mother never uses her safe-word."
"Why not?"
"Because if Sabina uses her safe-word and I don't stop," I explain, "she'll lose her illusion of control over the activity. But as long as she holds on to her safe-word, as long as she never uses it, then she still feels in full control."
"So she just thinks she has full control."
I agree. "No law says I have to respect Sabrina's safe-word. She signed a release. In fact, when Dr. Brackenridge prescribes AA, she strongly discourages the use of safe-words."
"Is that always true, Howie?"
"If Dr. Brackenridge is the supervising psychiatrist, safe-words are wholly optional and discretionary. Your mother knows that, too. There's no provision for safe-words in the release Sabrina signed. So that's why Sabrina never tries to use her safe-word. She fears that it won't work. And I'm glad she doesn't use it either."
"Why?"
"I like the strategic ambiguity of an untested safe-word. When Sabrina goes over my lap for AA therapy, she thinks she's in control. But until she actually uses her safe-word to shut down a spanking, she'll never really know who's the boss."
"Howie, can I have a safe-word?"
"I think 13 is too young for safe-words, honey. You're still at the age when there should be no ambiguity about who's in control of your spankings."
"But why can't I have it like a token? Something for comfort? You know, like when they let people wear tiny crosses around their necks before they behead them?"
"I haven't heard much about beheadings lately," I say dryly, suppressing a smile. "Not in Christian countries."
"Well, they're not beheading Christians so much nowadays," says Staci. "But during the French Revolution, lots of tiny crosses still hung around necks of aristocrats on tiny chains, long after the heads had been chopped off. In the end, I bet those little crosses were a comfort, all things considered."
I sigh. "Okay, Staci, your safe-word is Louisiana."
"And you'll stop spanking me if I can't take it anymore? If I cry out, 'Louisiana!' you'll shut down the spanking?"
I shrug and answer strategically. "Maybe."
A Boring Saturday
"Wanna come over?"
"Can't. Grounded."
"Why?"
"I back-talked," Crystal explained into my ear. "But say, maybe if you just showed up, she'd let you stay."
"Whatever. Anything's better than sticking around this stupid nursery school."
With a 3-year-old and a 5-year-old brother, a 12-year-old girl just has to get away. Especially on a boring Saturday morning...
---oOo---
"Hi, Mrs. Methé," I said with all my charm when Crystal's mom opened the backdoor.
"She's grounded."
Hands on her h
ips and blocking the door, she eyed me suspiciously.
"Oh, I didn't know," I lied. "I guess I'll go home. It's just that it's such a long walk over..."
"It's exactly three blocks, Grace." Her tone seemed disgusted. "But come in."
I found the 'prisoner' in her bedroom, surrounded by CDs, teen magazines, and unfinished homework - a vast wasteland spreading like cancer over her bed and floor.
"So she let you in. I'm surprised."
"I lied."
"Don't say it so loud. Bobby will hear and rat on you."
I looked over my shoulder and down the hall, catching the 8-year-old skulking at the end.
"Spying, Bobby? If so, I'm gonna beat you up."
Bobby had every reason to believe. I've taught him a lesson or two when his mom wasn't around to protect him.
"Didn't hear nothin', Grace," he insisted.
"Well, better watch it," I threatened.
"Hate his guts," said Crystal as I closed the door.
"Me too. A little shit. You're lucky though. You've only got one. I've got two."
We gossiped for a while.
"Damn, this is boring," I said. "Sucks that your mom grounded you."
"Yeah," agreed Crystal. "I remember when we were little, they used to spank instead."
"Yeah, I hated it."
"Still, it was - like you know - over and done with," said Crystal, somewhat wistfully. "Then we could go play. So in a way..."
"Think she'd still do it?" I asked. "At your age?"
"When she grounded me, she said if I didn't go to my room pronto, I was gonna get it."
"Sometimes moms say stuff like that to scare you. Thinks she means it?"
Crystal shrugged.
"Wanna find out?" I taunted. "Wanna go see?"
Crystal shrugged again.
"Let's go ask!" I giggled, opening her door.
To our surprise, Mrs. Methé was standing just outside the door, her hand reaching for the knob. She must have read our minds; she held her spanking brush in hand.
The Spanking of Teenage Daughters - Book One Page 4
